


Hell and Back

by darktea_27



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demon John Watson, Demonic Possession, Getting Together, Inaccurate Demonology, Inaccurate Egyptian Deities, M/M, Mary Morstan is Sebastian Moran, Necromancy, Original Character(s), Post-Reichenbach, Pretty Much Not Dead Sherlock, Summoning Demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-22 15:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16600658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darktea_27/pseuds/darktea_27
Summary: After the fall of Sherlock, John tries his hardest to recover from the loss and trauma, but what if he can bring Sherlock back from the dead by making a deal pact with the demon?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks! This is my very first fic ever in Sherlock BBC fandom so i am sorry for any weird reference of characters or places for i am not british. Ah ya and the disclaimer of characters go to BBC and Mofftiss because i only own the plot tho. Pokes me if you think any constructive critic for my writing. Comment and Kudos are very appreciated. Enjoy!

It was the 85 days 18 hours from the fall of Sherlock Holmes – _the Fall_ as if Sherlock was banished from the Garden of Eden by God and left John Watson alone, when John found the demonology book in the trunk of Sherlock’s possession that his solicitor thrust to John. The hearing of will was infuriating to the point John wanted to throw tantrum like Sherlock did when that curly haired detective did not get the lead of a locked murder on Sunday because the witness was on holiday, it was humiliating. Mycroft said that this is what Sherlock wants but again Mycroft was the one who sold information about Sherlock to the snake Moriarty and if Mycroft stumbled of the solicitor’s hallway with a broken nose, it was not John’s fault because that was what he wanted, _ha_. The will gives a right of everything to John with the amount of money and assets that he does not know what to do with them all, and the trunk – clothes and books of the detective, was opened late because apparently depression from loss, making him tired all the time and bed was his own best friend now.

Initially, Harry helped him by dragging him from the bed and throwing him into the storage room to deal with the problem at hand, well the problem of Opening Sherlock’s Trunk to Face the Reality so-called Dead Detective, and John wants to cry if it is not more devastating than what already is. So, this is where the scene of _Demonology_ book on John’s lap that opens on _Montu_ page, a falcon-headed man that depicted as God of War in Egyptian belief. His finger traces the falcon shaped like the head on the page with his heart is tugged in the description of this God. John asks himself why God can be put on Demonology book, but apparently, it is possible when one’s God creates so much destruction that He wills to pass the power of damnation to those who seek. Then, as if lightning streaks on the bells all over John’s nervous systems, he remembers clearly the sermon he received when he was a little blonde boy in Aberdeen, _seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you._ Besides, anything, anything at all is worth to be tried in getting Sherlock back from the dead than dealing with all these deafening silences Ella likes to call as _Grief_ with capital G and grey neon.

* * *

 

People can say that Sherlock is the fake genius now, but it does not deter the fact gained by people who witness the bright mind, iconic mind of a generation, of Sherlock Holmes. It was amazing, extraordinary, and mind-boggling that sometimes John could not help to throw every crazy adjective, good ones, on the feet of Sherlock here and there whenever the detective could think faster than everyone and think something, things that people would miss. _Maybe that is why you are attracted to Montu because Montu likes the Sun and Sherlock is your sun,_ his mind supplies creatively. John shakes his head to clear his mind in pursuing many researches and facts about Montu and all the requirements to revive Sherlock while awaking Montu as well. If someone one year ago told him that John was a believer of deities slash demons, John would laugh with the full force of sassiness and throw dagger stare to the unfortunate talker. But now everything changes, Sherlock is dead, and John is dying inside, it might as well he lay on the bed of dark knowledge and try one time to bring Sherlock back. It has been a week for John goes back and forth between Harry’s flat and local library, while Harry smiles over the positive appearance that John finally out of the house, he can sense that Harry is worried and the upcoming talk will be soon.

The Revival, that is what John keeps saying in his head, requires many weird kinds of stuff that lucky for him or not, the money Sherlock left for him comes in handy. Who in the right mind will kill falcon and bull just to get their feather and fur? It was not John but now it is John who buys it in the black market. This is where John’s visual intelligence as well as years of being discipline doctor and reliable military man make a crazy combination of _yes he can do this and he knows he can make it_. Sherlock always teased him in his mocking tone whenever he blurted out that he was thinking, but now he thinks hard, his head spins like crazy noted all the requirements, finding the suppliers or just people who can run errand to find weird stuff, and finding the portal of underworld in London, _yet_ no mocking tone riles him up as the desired companion at the moment. It makes him sad and lonely so whenever there is a lump on his throat like avocado stone tries to choke him off and smother him at the moment, he tries to focus that he will bring Sherlock back, no matter what.

In the day of 100 after Sherlock’s fall, the requirements from people who did errand from John are collected, John tries to tell Harry why he needs to go away for a moment. The duffel bag that seen better days in Afghanistan is stuffed full with everything he needs including Sherlock’s Belstaff swishy coat and an empty jar for the grave soil, of course, Sherlock’s grave in Essex. Harry waits for him in the living room and when their eyes meet, John reaches Harry and hugs her tight. They have never been tactile siblings who like to show affection through touch, more often they like shouting to each other with words that hurt more than swords. ‘This might be the last time I see her’ John thinks. Harry with her shoulder length blonde hair, corn blue eyes and paler skin than him is recovering from alcohol addiction that makes John aches in leaving her alone. “I told Mycroft to find a convenient AA therapy and rehab house, a better one, I trust you but I do not trust myself leaving you alone in suburban’s flat like this Harry,” he tells her while wiping Harry’s tears. “What are you doing, Johnny?” Harry holds his left wrist tight with her eyes searching his face. “I need to, I need to find a way, a peace for myself in this, Harry, he is important for me” he knows that he lies to Harry, but at least it is not a full lie. “You love him, don’t you John?” Harry asks with her breaking voice and hugs him tight. It is not a question that John likes to dwell by himself, he is sure by himself that he is straight, but a straight person might not do what John going to do in few days so he just hugs Harry back tighter and promises to himself that he will come back with Sherlock.

* * *

 

On the train ride to Essex, John reminisces the time when he met Sherlock with his temple leans on the window. The mind which bulldozers any riddles in less than one kilometre in lightning speed thinking that creates wonder in _plebeian_ mind that’s what Sherlock would say, keeps haunting him day and night that he ever had the opportunity to meet an amazing man and now he lost him. That man is infuriating when demands things from others as well as throwing tantrum when boredom is too great to tackle or basically when John tried to have a life outside the nutshell of _John and Sherlock._ Not only once he thought that it would only be John who’d be lost if Sherlock is kicked out from the equation of John’s life – although the present will support the argument, yet when Greg or basically the entire team of Scotland Yard breathed in relief when he came back in investigating from his practice that finally someone will put a leash on Sherlock, brandished or stamped “Only John”. It made him happy and treasured, although in strange fascination because of course, this is Sherlock what he talked about, the mess as storm the demanding as lord of war, but then when John was put next to Sherlock, he was able to smooth the raw and sharp edges of the detective. And he wants to cry so bad in train ride like a weak female character in the cheap novel when he thinks of everytime people assumed they were a couple with John’s firm denial yet Sherlock always ignored it like a silence of affirmation that _yes we are a couple, yes we are a package_. That if he opened his eyes sooner, he saw that they were in fact as good as the couple would be, Sherlock would not need to go down alone. No need to go down in the first place. 

He arrives in Essex Cemetery Park at the late of the evening that the mist follows him like his own shadow and the near winter seems so fast approaching in the fog he exhales. The backpack he shouldered feels heavy for like every time he comes to Sherlock’s rest place. The ambience is changed abruptly, the shifting looks alike the deity turns the shower knob making the water runs much and heavy just as like the grief pours down on John like a century misery tailor-made for John Watson only. He walks the path to the tombstone that even on blindfold he still can reach him. _His best friend, his leader, his infuriating flatmate, his almost something._ If it is not from his military years of practice, John is already weeping at this point, but he refuses to do so and just kneeling in front of the tombstone, plain black marble without angle on top or pleasantries of “son, brother, best friend” that Sherlock deserves.

Just like every time he comes, the first thing he will do is always tracing Sherlock’s name on the marble while praying that maybe God listens to him and will bestow him a miracle, but the thing John knows from his life, the miracle is earned and he intends to do so. He lets out the empty jar and small shovel to take the soil of his best friend’s grave. Likely, people who see him will think either he is occultist or mad widower, and strangely he finds comfort in the latter. After the jar is full and secured in his backpack, John sits legs – crossed with his side leans on the tombstone. The tears which he tries so hard to hold finally starts prickling. The sadness he’s been locking for months breaks like a tsunami in the comfortable night. _So sudden like Sherlock’s fall._

“Sherlock. I buried you here and I am so sorry to take a part of your resting home for my crazy plan, a madman who lost his best friend is who I am now Sherlock. I wish there is a thing called moving forward, but you cut the heal once you died, you infuriating man. I wish I can say more of the things you deserve to hear when you were alive, but even now I still cannot do it. I refuse to let you go, Sherlock, I refuse to give up on you. A bloke cannot sustain alone with too much misery. I promise I will bring you back”. John keeps wiping Sherlock’s tombstone while crying, and if breeze answers his plea he will think it is just the autumn wind.

 

* * *

 

 

Funny how is the portal of underworld recedes in the Battersea Power Station, place where Irene Adler showed up and announced herself _pretty much not dead, and look at us both._ Sometimes John thinks perhaps Sherlock will turn up not dead as well but then he remembers it was himself who examined Sherlock’s pulse and it was himself who closed the coffin and buried him. He was not crazy when he still could identify Sherlock’s battered head and that curls, wherever he sees it he will know it by heart. In this place where the revelation showed, maybe John will find his own discovery as well, either go home like a loser and stamped himself as clinically a madman or go big finding demon is real and sacrifice anything to get Sherlock back.

His friends have assured him that surveillances around Battersea are hacked and tricked, to keep himself from Mycroft’s meddling nose of course, and his equipment are placed near the sewage planting, a big square empty room that smells like the rusty and humid place. He draws a pentagram with serpent’s blood that makes John cringing and curling his toes, but when the draw is complete, he feels the room’s temperature drops significantly which absolutely does not make sense. After he makes sure that yes no one else is in the room or God forbid in the area of summoning, he pours pure salt around the pentagram and lit perhaps a half of dozen jasmine candle from Tesco. The Belstaff coat is opened on the pentagram floor as the base of a wooden bowl filled up by Sherlock’s grave soil, feather of falcon, and fur of bull, well basically every other things that smell weird or shape so out of John’s normalcy but he tries to not put so much thought on that. The last is the blade which he bought in middle eastern somewhere through his colleague weeks ago.

In succession of summoning preparation, John finds himself kneeling inside the pentagram with a tome opened in the summoning call section where the Latin, English, and Hebrew languages mix into one hellish call number. This is not the first time John wishes to have the intelligence of Sherlock Holmes for he is afraid calling the wrong demon that costing his own life instead – _but then it would be a sufficient ending, he might find Sherlock on the other world,_ John thinks. Finishing the summoning call by pricking his right palm with the blade into the grave soil bowl, the blood creates the imagery of a sperm that bestows upon the grail to create a new life. It is sizzling which John knows that it should not be that, it does not make sense at all, then the candles flickering in circle emotion while in far away he tries to identify what sound is that, _crow? Eagles? seagulls?_

As John turns his body to find the entity that disturbs his summoning ritual, all the candles are blown and the room is drowning in darkness. “Hello, is anyone here?” John calls out into the room with his voice croaks at the end. He does not afraid of the dark but he can swear that there is something, _someone,_ that watching him now, that he is not alone. A breeze passes him on his side and what he finds when he turns around sending a terror through all his body. A dark shadow that illuminating by moonlight through the window has a bird shaped – head and claws on his hands crawling into the pentagram slowly. Feet from him, the shadow grumbles with the voices of many people with crows’ sound in every hitch, then with a stare of deep black eyes and a smirk plastered on dark shadow’s face, John Watson cries.

_“Oh, soldier..”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much John will to give to Demon in exchange of Sherlock's revival?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always pain me to say that the bois are belong to Mofftiss and BBC while i only own the plot. And if ya ever deal with demon and say that this reaction is not wild enough well hits me up on comments girls. Love you. Enjoy!!!

John cries out in terror as the falcon-headed shadow calls him in his many voices. He is a doctor and he can tell a tale of a heart attack if John does not manage his fear soon. It is petrifying as hell that he did not expect this, well John never expects something until he faces it. But with the firm will of Captain Watson’s personality, he locks his fear in the box and keeps it deep down, so deep in the well of _think about this later in 100 years_ list.

As he falls down to his back in surprise and crawls backwards to avoid the shadow, John unconsciously breaks the salt line. This makes the shadow comes closer and reaches out to John’s forehead with the anguish flesh and its sharp claws. He whimpers in a ragged breath then closes his eyes as the claw digs deeper into his skin.

“Who are you?” John whispers and grits his teeth when the shadow laughs in evil.

“Oh, soldier, you summoned me minutes ago and you forget now?” This time the shadow’s voice seems to fix into deep baritone that throws millennia of power.

“Montu?”

“Hold your tongue, mortal. I am your Lord and your Protector. And well, well, well..a soldier begs a life for other man? Is he your comrade in arms..or is he your _lover_?”  The demon spats the word ‘lover’ as if its a holy water burns on his tongue. If John is not in fear he might laugh for the familiarity of a disgust over the sentiment.

This time John pulls all the bravery he has within him, _bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity,_  and he can agree with Mycroft now. “Can you..Lord?” he asks with his signature stiff upper lip and determination written all over his face. “You seek me and you shall receive, soldier” the shadow answers like purring on his ear. By this point, the shadow merges into broken flesh and head of a bird that makes John gasps in the hard breath of panic.

He is realized that this negotiation will end up with him offering his own life as an exchange. But then the demon touches the blade that is ignored on the floor and chants a language John does not know on it. “By the exchange of 300 souls, hereby I resuscitate the soul and flesh of Sherlock Holmes in the deal under the name of John Hamish Watson”. Before John can counter the demon’s errand, the blade is pointed into the star-shaped scar he got in Afghanistan and prick it hard to his wound that draws cry from John’s mouth.

It is the pain that pulsating from his chest to all over his body, hotter than anything John ever felt as if his skin touches hot pan but it does not dissipate because it is inside his body, not the outside. _Bloody hell_. There is a heavy breath and shouting mess that he believes coming from himself. If he can borrow Sherlock’s metaphor for his killing boredom, he will say that this pain turns his bones rattled and flesh outward. Then, his eyes are hurt so bad he tries to close it, _but it is already closed_. John trashes himself far from the demon but it feels like the blade has a vice grip into it that John can’t help but dig into his agony in the place.

The pain stops instantly as it comes, and the blade’s handle is passed into his shaking hand. The demon now crawls into his own lap and before saying anything else the forehead is leaned on John’s then it is gone with John coughing so bad as if someone lodging a breath into his throat in immense weight and John knows, _he knows,_ that the demon is not gone but it exists within him.

“Fuck no no no no..” he tries to shake himself and thumps the chest to let the demon out.

 _‘Let it go, mortal, you will be my vessel as you collect the souls for reviving Sherlock Holmes, and you cannot fight me’_ says the demon within his head.

It feels like out of body experience where John sees himself out of his own flesh and bones. He makes himself small by curling on the floor while processing the voice inside his head, _the voice beside imaginary Sherlock inside his head! he is possessed by the devil._ Maybe he cries, maybe he sniffles so bad. But again he would not be Captain without determination running hard into his veins although his body is so shattered he feels he can sleep thousand years.

First thing first, he cleans the mess of the summoning ritual and put the things back on the duffel bag he spare in his backpack. His eyes spotted the blade that still lies on the floor without its scabbard. It is as long as kitchen’s knife but with a quarter round of moon, it glistens with the light that can mirror John’s face with his black eyes, _wait what!_ John pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns the front camera on his face. He shouts in surprise when he sees that _yes his eyes are deep black without the white part and bloody hell where his blue eyes gone._ He blinks his eyes so many times and keeps seeing the black eyes watch him back on the camera.

 _‘It will stay for a while but it will go the first sunrise we have after this’_ the bird on his brain tells him with its so sweet as syrup voice yet it does not stop the cringe and the fear that keep bolting into his body every time he hears demon’s voice in his head.

“So much for dealing with a demon” he sighs and lets go of this eye issue for a while. He sobers himself fast by remembering the souls he needs to collect and Sherlock’s revival yet he cannot shake himself from the upcoming dread he feels.

“How do I know that you tell me the truth about Sherlock?” John asks to the empty room.

Then a jolt of sight at the corner of the room catches his eyes, Sherlock is cuddled up with his loose pyjama pants and a blue hoodie. “Sherlock!”. Before John can reach Sherlock, the detective sight is gone and the demon inside his head laugh so clear it rings up his ears. _‘By the 300th soul you give to me, Sherlock will come back from the dead in that spot, now you only can see him transparent as his mirror soul in underworld, I will get to the deal faster if I were you’_ explains the demon that doesn’t cover the smugness that reverberates through his skull.

As the ringing bell inside his body rings, John kicks himself into action and brings himself out of Battersea Power Station. He will get an early train to Baker Street and he will think about how in the hell name he can collect 300 souls to bring Sherlock back. For now, he needs the energy given by their home. _John and Sherlock’s home again soon,_ he thinks.

* * *

On the way back to home, John can’t stop to keep checking back his eyes and all the telltale of his summoning equipment. The feeling of dread still latches onto him strongly that sometimes he can swear there is sulphur smell in the train carriage, but then the demonic creatures are highly likely the ones who permeate such a thick odour. The blade inside his jacket grows warmer and warmer as if it has its own life that if John has enough mental capacity to deal with more supernatural things he might throw it out of the train window and run away to other country.

Remembering the negotiation, John still wonders how the bloody hell he will get 300 souls, fast and without so much heavy conscience burdening on his moral as a doctor with that oath and so on. Then as if luck on his side never leaves him, his phone vibrates and Greg’s message shows up _‘wanna grab a pint?’_. He wants Sherlock back and nothing, _nothing in the world,_ John will not give to the demon if that falcon-headed man really can bring Sherlock back.

* * *

Estranged is underestimated word for describing his friendship with Greg now. Since Sherlock’s fall, he’s been avoiding Greg and Mycroft like a plague. The betrayal and the sadness when he senses them around him are overwhelming that he can’t help himself to feel angrier. Yet, those two men always tried to coax John into meeting them until Harry spoke for him and left them threatened.

Although he is not stupid enough to not know the people Mycroft places around Harry’s flat to watch Watson siblings like it would be enough to mend his broken heart _like it would be enough to forgive them for letting Sherlock died._ But then, Greg would not be a detective like he is now if he is not determined and knows when to stop and to pursue – Greg is always the one who message him even when he knows John will not reply.

He texted Greg to meet him in the pub near Baker Street and not surprised to find the silver-haired man seated on the nearby window. It sends a memory of Sherlock and him, whenever the detective deigned the blogger a time to eat outside their flat, he will choose a seat near the window. _I miss him._ Yes, he misses the detective so much, it’s hurt.

After Greg spotting him from the entrance, he let John sits and the awkward comes naturally. Both men who don’t know how to talk about feeling clear their throat.

“How are you?” Greg asks with much cautious in his tones.

“Had worse but nothing’s new”. John can be passive – aggressive in the worst of the time and he really hopes he can be gentle to Greg as the detective’s face falls.

“I am sorry, John”

John thinks he can see the wet around Greg’s eyes under the dim light of pub bulb above their heads, and he feels really shitty about this. “Greg, you know I need time and I know why you did things before. Hell, Greg, I understand, but what I don’t understand until now is why you couldn't believe Sherlock, you met him longer than me, but then you decided that he was fake and evil. How you could do that?”. John knows that he raises his voice as many heads turn to their table but he needs to let this anger out of his system.

“I am so –

“No, Greg, that’s enough. I come here because I think you can help me, to mend things and so on. This is shit of me Greg but I really need that”.

“What’s wrong John?” Greg asks with so much concern, it makes John hard to ask.

“I need a file of Moriarty’s web, the one you collected for Sherlock in his trial, I know you still have it, so for the love of God, Greg, let me have it”. And there goes cat out of the bag. Greg’s face is contorted with so many emotions, his confusion weakens John’s resolution.

“John, why? I think we established that Moriarty doesn’t exist, it is Richard Brooks”.

“Listen, Greg, you can keep thinking that snake doesn’t exist, it’s fuckery, but hell the syndicates, the drug cartel, and so on and so on are real. Come on Greg, you know!”

“But John..”

“I swear Greg that this is the last time I ask your help and the last time you see me, we can even pretend we don’t have this conversation. I need him, Greg”. John doesn’t know if it is from the tears leaking from his eyes or from the words, but he sees Greg’s walls crumble like a city that has been long in the fire then the flood comes, it crashes.

“You know that’s not what I want”

 _‘Sure, Greg’_ the falcon brain retorts back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drum rolls* oh dear, should i sacrifice Greg too?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey of collecting 300 souls is never a fun ride, but for Sherlock, John will do everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle your strap because we are going to go to Hell together for this. Lol, just kidding! The logical geographic might not be applied into this story cz i am bad at that. This story's disclaimer goes to Sherlock BBC for its characters while i only own the plot. Enjoy reading!

In the beige living room of Greg’s house, John thinks many times if he can sacrifice Greg first as the opening of his madness massacre. While waiting for the silver-haired detective collecting the Moriarty’s web case files, John considers the flaws in the plan and not once falcon brain – that’s what he calls the demon inside his brain now, keeps persuading him to just hold the blade and tiptoeing around the house and stabbing Greg on his back, literally derives from metaphor.

 _‘He pays for the betrayal’_ demon says in lusty baritone, full of promising and satisfaction.

However, John knows if he does that for real, with the growing warmer and warmer blade, he will end up in prison before he even has a chance to really fulfill the demand for Sherlock’s resurrection. Besides, if Sherlock will be alive again, _and he will,_ he likely still be consulting detective who needs a case from Greg and whether Sherlock admits it or not, John could see how much Sherlock respected Greg although with occasional insult here and there to the entire Scotland Yard team.

There is cold inside him which finds solace in the flushed blade so he can stop himself from killing Greg, in his own house. Years of practicing repression of feeling, make him good in drowning the demon’s suggestion in his head with humming _Ode to Joy_ song Sherlock liked to play when they were relaxing at home. He doesn’t want to be that bad.

Greg appears in the doorway with a bundle of case files on his arm, he stops when he looks at John. Hesitation is as clear as day when he tries to muster a word for giving the case files which are considered as classified.

“John..”

John walks and juts his chin to Greg, “We don’t have this conversation and we don’t even meet, Greg, you lost this files, you have no idea where it goes. Are we clear?”.

It’s as if his voice is laced with falcon brain that wipes all the hesitation on Greg as the man gives the files willingly in a docile manner. John’s eyebrows raise and it catches him off his guard.

_‘When you are a demon, it is easy to manipulate human. They are weak creature’._

“Uh...thanks?” John doesn’t know if he utters gratitude to the demon or to the silver-haired detective.

* * *

 

After reading the file cases on the basement of homeless network’s meeting point, John is decided to go first to Cork, Ireland, to seek the family of Moriarty who still lives around that might have a connection to the web created by Jim.

The more he picturing the information the more he believes that this massive web of criminal is worth to be ruined. _Worth to be sacrificed_ in order to resuscitate the man who much better than these scumbags. It boils John’s blood to acknowledge that Sherlock went down just because he was alone fighting the spider while he could have the entire New Scotland Yard, Mycroft, Molly, and himself. It makes him crying on the way to Ireland, he feels so alone.

In front of the manor house near the Blackrock Castle, John will never guess that this massive living place is the house of Jim Moriarty, yet he can relate where the drama comes from when he remembers encountering him in swimming pool.

Few steps into the manor feel like John is dragged into the back seat of his own body in the blink of an eye while falcon brain takes control of his limbs. It is shocking that John, in his own brain, paralyzing and feeling so dreadful all over his soul. Once John can recover from the surprise, he yells to the demon but only getting his own echo reverberating in his skull.

He doesn’t need a mirror to know that his eyes are as black as the space hole with the demon turns John’s head left and right then turning off all surveillance around the manor. John can see the dark miasma around his body that smells like sulphur and send tendril of terror in his consciousness.

The demon pushes the gate as if it is just a wooden plank and kills three guards with one slash of a blade, he has no idea when he takes out that thing from his jacket pocket. The thing is when the demon satisfies his hungry of blood, he can see not only the things that happen now – squirting arteries, grunting from being gutted, maids scream before they are killed and bullets hissing around him, but also the past, where the armies wore armors that he knows from ancient Egypt struggled in bloody battle on desert.

There is a man on a dark horse with long braided black hair and golden armor covered up his bulky figure under the heat of Egypt’s sun that if John sees this scene on painting, that man will become the main character with his glory and fierce attribute. That man turns his head to look at John and with the same fierceness he shows to his enemies, he shouts “GET OUT” to John that rattles the doctor to close his eyes and he throws back to the present of the gruesome manor with the iron smell in the air.

The demon squats on the blank tiles and moves his right hand in drawing sigil which lights the yellow color around the sigil then the house sighs in a collective scream of souls and vibrating until transparent blue bubbles absorbed into the blade.

John is put back on the handle of his body as soon as when the demon possessed his body. It aches everywhere with an upcoming migraine on the horizon of his sighting. The place that was so bloody now left in ashes of corpses and blood which makes John throws up on the way out of the house. His hand that still holds the blade shaking uncontrollably until his other hand successfully put the scabbard on its place. He gulps in a heavy breath and leans on the bricks outside the manor.

He might lose himself in fear if it is not for Sherlock’s name on his tongue.

* * *

 

In the numbness of the following cities to take down, and _take souls_ , of Moriarty’s web, John learns that the prostitution near Hampstead Heath was sold underage children, drug cartel in Lille – France worn down the entire suburban village as the disguise, and illegal firearms selling in Brussels – Belgium might be supplied the extremist in Middle Eastern’s war zones. What a mess of world reigned by Moriarty’s web. Although the conscience still weighs him down like an anchor in a dead land, he thrusts the sinful souls one by one with single-mindedness he uses for treating patients with bombing and shouting in the background.

It’s been weeks of falcon brain keep switching into action whenever he comes to buildings owned by criminals that he can’t help but now he can draw sigil with his eyes closed. The blood of the leader in criminal ring of ‘provider of false identity and fraud’ is sprayed on John’s face that he grimaces badly and hopes demon will protect him from infection or he will need shot somewhere in Cologne where he doesn’t understand a single word the people talk around him unless he has his own translator.

Mycroft keeps calling or texting his phone number here and there but he just can’t say _‘hey Mycroft I’m on way in collecting souls for resurrecting your brother, I’m busy’_ right, so he just let it read and avoid the CCTV cameras or crowded places like a plague. The night he spends in motel, subway, or parks feels like bachelor lonely club regardless of how much coffee or sandwich he eats, he misses London so bad, and ultimately the only consulting detective in the world. If people notice he sleeps with a coat that bigger than him or sniffles coat on his face, they don’t call social service but rather let him alone. That’s nice.

Sometimes he impulsively guts the men who like harassing women in the alley that if it is not for the ashes corpses he leaves, he might be called as a serial vigilante by now. _Ironic._

When killing people becomes too much for him to sleep at night, he drags himself to the church nearby. Once, he went to the cathedral in Linz after killing a half of hundred assassins under the glowing office skyscraper. He thought the priest might know he has the demon inside him yet just nodded when he passed him by on the pews. The falcon brain bristles with an abandoned tantrum that if John didn’t get used to ignoring Sherlock when he was still alive, the exorcist probably happened in the midst of bustling day in Austria.

* * *

 

When John squatting behind the container in ship dock around Zagreb, Croatia, he accidentally eavesdropping on the guards who secure smuggling ring around the shipment area. It is like ice cold water has been poured on his head that sends anger and despair within him. In broken English, two men talking about Moran, the right hand of Moriarty, hides in Belgrade in order to keep the remnant of Moriarty web after anonymous dismantling the criminal ring from west to east steadily.

 _Moran_ is not a new name for John, he saw it once he took notes from the case files, an only name without a picture, the man that was responsible for keeping John on the recipient end of rifle’s target, to ensure that Sherlock would take a fall although Moriarty killed himself on the rooftop.

Listening to the conversation stores too much anger in John that he doesn’t know what to do with that but marching to the guards and before they realized what happens, John slashes their throats in one swift motion, and the blade glows red and flushing. It’s reaching 300 soon and he doesn’t need a demon to swipe all these scumbags from the earth.

After taking down the mob which had been protecting Moriarty’s upper people in Budapest, John takes the train to Belgrade with the anticipation of meeting Moran and ending the last ring of the spider web. He fiddles with his phone and decides to put Mycroft on the first dial with enough credit to call him just in case tonight he will fulfill 300 souls to Montu.

Montu, The Lord of War, months of having that falcon demon in his head and he feels the strange acquaintance with the blood-thirsty figure. He gathers that the demon was a man once, a living flesh and bones, but then he was mummified alive when he tried to dethrone the Pharaoh at the time. It was a heart-wrenching thing to witness that after he cried so bad in finishing the sigil, the demon put him back on handling his body with sulk thrummed on his vein. _‘I do not need your pity, mortal’_ that’s what the demon said, yet it was not the pity he felt, it was sadness for he was once a man of battalion too and he understood the ambition yet there is always a great motive behind something as great as rebellion against the head of nation that he guessed the falcon brain doesn’t want to share that vision with him.

It is like an abandoned warehouse, _again,_ in Belgrade where everything so quiet. Maybe they know his coming or maybe they already fled to other countries, nonetheless, John needs to find out either information or souls. He is eager to finish this demon deal that he bounces on his heels. It’s cliche like a movie sometimes how the men suddenly come to him and fight him mercilessly, yet the combination of Captain’s skill and additional demonic skill ensure him to combat his enemies and take their souls away.

It’s more than a dozen, one stab and it reached 300. His blade is pulsating with a yellow glow, dark miasma dances around it and falcon brain explode into the white noise that defeating him for a moment. The star-shaped scar that ever been touched by the prick of the blade is jolting with pain leaving John breathless. He limps outside the warehouse while holding his chest tight. He thinks he heard shouting and footsteps from the inside, yet he can’t bother with that for he dialing Mycroft in shaking hand.

Three rings and Mycroft answers him with a raspy voice, John guesses even the head of British government needs sleep too. He gulps big air to prepare him to say the words that he’s been rehearsing so many times while holding the hurt that feels like a punch to his solar plexus.

“Listen Mycroft, listen well, collect Sherlock from the Battersea Power Station,..yes I know, listen, Battersea Power Station near at the sewage plant room, take your medical people too. Mycroft, please keep him safe this time and don’t let him out of your sight.”

And before he can say _and tell him I will come home_ the blow comes hard to his head and ends his consciousness in black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John will survive for Sherlock, to say things he always meant to say but never say it when the consulting detective was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been taking me so much time to write, possibly because i procrastinate it possibly because it is so hard to say goodbye LOL.
> 
> Disclaimer : The characters are derived from Sherlock BBC created by Mofftiss, and i only own the plot.
> 
> Enjoy reading my dudes!

It might be hours, days, or weeks since John was taken into captivity, a white narrow four wall with himself hanging by his hands in the middle of the room, semi naked with only his loose pants on him. Men come and go as they torture him and question him about the downfall of the Moriarty’s web either he works alone or Sherlock is still alive and hide somewhere. He doesn’t understand a single word of Serbian or is it Hungarian, that makes him punished more in return. While in English, he just responses them by laughing or spatting their faces. It can be his death wish by this rate.

_ There is no salvation without suffering  _ so he endures all these men beat him black and blue while keeping the hope that Mycroft already secured Sherlock and keep him safe forever. He hasn’t given any food, and the water he can only get from the splashing of water bucket they throw upon him. He may be delirious, he may be at the edge of his tether, but there is no falcon brain talking inside his head that he admits it scares him. Alone in captivity room without anything distract him but his own aching body can drive a bloke up to the wall.

The steel door is opened with a screeching sound that gives his head a migraine. He grits his teeth for preparing himself in another torturing question that seems never end. It is the same men, one middle eastern broad man with a beard that covers half of his face and a Russian young guy with malice speaks on his eyes. He keeps chanting to himself lowly,  _ do not be afraid do not be afraid _ , yet he is afraid for what if today is the last day and he can’t say things that he meant to say to Sherlock. Maybe this is a karma for every time he said ‘I’m not gay’.

However, the men do not question him with a whip on hands, he untied the ropes on his wrists and hold his body as they drag him outside. It supposed to be a relief, still, he can’t help but feeling dread born inside his stomach that pulsating into his entire being. The thing he knew from Afghanistan is once the kidnapper let the hostage out of the cage, they will start changing bark into bite which is a bit not good.

The hold on his forearms tightening as they enter a massive dim room on the lower floor. His feet are hurting from the blister and the harsh treatment he gets from dragging, fortunate for him that the men keep gripping him into the position in front of a petite blonde woman that sits on the edge of the table. This figure could be someone he flirts in the past for her charming smile, but then the volume of menace vibrating around the woman set him off at this moment.

“Dr John Watson, what a meeting we have here, I am delighted to see you,” says the woman with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

“Who are you?” he asks with a ragged voice that feels like people shove gravel into his throat.

The blonde female laughs with her cocks back and forwards as if he says something funny, “Oh John, you brandished the entire web to the ground from west to east and still have a ball to pretend that you don’t know me?”.

Fear shoots through his nerves as the way the woman speaks snatching his mind into the swimming pool incident,  _ Jim? Jim from the hospital?  _ this can’t be true, the right hand of Moriarty is a woman. “Moran?”. He tries not to let the alarm palpable into his voice, but from the amusement painted on the face of the woman in front of him, he fails terribly.

“Oh! The right hand of Jim Moriarty is a woman. What a shock! Good job there John, I guess Sherlock taught you a thing or two”. Moran smiles in that depreciating way while tilting her head to put a scrutiny to his face. It is eerily similar to Moriarty that he knows why that criminal mastermind chose this woman to be his trusted person.

Moran off from the table as she rounding it to reach something out of the drawer, a blade that he knows for months, a blade blessed by Montu to collect 300 souls. The constitutive criminal swings the blade lightly as to measure what makes this blade having such a reputation of importance but from her frown plagued on that face, John knows that he has an upper hand here.

As Moran opened the scabbard in front of John, the bang of opened steel-door in upper floor is echoing to the room that makes all of the people petrified. It feels as the room’s oxygen is vacuumed once the figure arrived with the black outfit team behind him. The human-sized hurricane with the signature wind-blown curl and sharp-cutting cheekbones, John never fails to recognize the man everywhere. The man that kept haunting his dreams and wakes.

_It’s Sherlock._

Maybe John really getting delirious when he notices how Sherlock’s eyes are softened once those grey orbs spot him in the room. In a flesh, he can see that Sherlock is coming back alive, with that pretentious coat of him that John believes Mycroft got a new one for the detective for the previous one still stuck on his backpack for God knows where. He still gets that charismatic aura around him that John senses since the beginning of their encounter. God does he really miss that man.

“Stop right there Mr Holmes, or I am going to kill your damsel in distress”. For a splitting moment, John considers to deny that brand of person like  _ really, I am the one who destroys the entire web and I am the damsel in distress????,  _ but then the men of Moran come to the room from the southern door which makes the army man inside John taking charge and do calculation of exit and comrades.

It feels like a battlefield is alive again when Sherlock is around, the adrenaline and the need to keep Sherlock safe, to watch his back, to go around the world just to keep the madman out of the danger zone is soaring high that  _ nothing is matter but Sherlock.  _ How he used to fool himself by saying that he just admired the man while it was always, still  _ is _ always be love that reverberating inside him to Sherlock that once the man back to the axis of his world, it feels like the dead carnival and ghost town living in his body lit up again with firework in his every fibre.

After taking the condition of the room and men around him, he is realized that Sherlock’s men are outnumbered and the only exit is either from the detective’s entrance or Moran’s southern door which a real bollock situation. The despair on his face might be mirrored on Sherlock’s face as well that Moran with her confidence on the top notch, threat to stab John with the prick of the blade right near on the star-shaped scar on his chest.

It’s taking all of his power to not let his expression changes as he finds the probably crazy way out but might be suicidal mission while Sherlock shouting ‘NO’ at the upstairs. There is no other choice, see, John did everything to get Sherlock back from the dead that he egotistically can’t let anything hurt Sherlock again, this time, John will sacrifice himself for Sherlock.

Using the element of surprise, in seconds, John elbows the men who hold him while taking the blade dip into the scar once stamped by a bullet but as well by  _ Montu _ . He knows exactly what the blade contains, the sinful souls who did a wrongdoing in Moriarty’s web, supposed to be souls in exchanging Sherlock’s revival, yet he could see the glowing yellow aura around the blade since he came into the room which means the blade is still having the magic around it.

It is the similar sheer of pain that he ever felt when Montu marked him but with the growing seconds the pain that pulsating all over his body increasing tremendously. He can hear the gasp, the shout, the shot, but he clearly also acknowledges the sound of bones mending and the feel of his skin too tight to wear. His eyes blurry with a tinge of sore that makes him blinking it often until Moran falls back to the desk with a fearful expression on her face, he is realized that Moran is afraid of him, afraid of the intricate black runes of language written on his skin like a full body tattoo starting from the chest to the very point of his fingers and his black eyes. And as if the changing not finished, the claws growing from his fingers, black tainted with colour as red as blood. It is painful, sickening, and  _ macabre. Like the skull above the fireplace, like the eyeball in the microwave.  _ He might laugh for the reference but Moran takes her revolver on his desk and shots him point blank on the chest.  

_ One, two, three seconds,  _ everything and everyone is still in dead silence until the bullet clattering on the floor. The skin is hissing as it closes the wound. With the power that he never knows he has, John flaps his left hand in a dismissive gesture to push Sherlock and his team back out of the room with entrance door is closed and locked. It feels like he listens to Sherlock shouting from a faraway place, drowning in a hundred voices utter from his mouth that sends terror to his consciousness and people around him.

_ “Hello, my dear…” _

* * *

 

Sherlock’s brain is halted and everything happens in his mind is shut down with the sight he witnesses before. John, his dear John, changed from the man once he knew with soft jumper and the constant need of tea to the man with the lurid evolution as if the demons are real. It can’t be possibly happening. His logical thought abhors that to the point of resistance in the idea that the man was inside the warehouse’s hull is not John. However, the recognition expressed on John’s face and the act of shoving Sherlock out of the dangerous situation is always the definite facts that the man with the runes running on his skin, claws on his fingers, black eyes and voices out from his man absolutely without contest is John Watson.

The shouts and gurgle inside the warehouse pull Sherlock back into the action of opening and banging the metal door to help John. One man fights men who probably more than a couple of dozen will not be long enough to survive. Although he ever did the same, sacrificing himself to save the others, knowing the motive behind that, he will never ever settle the idea that John does this because he has a feeling for him. Returning the affection and love that grow inside the beating heart of his body, that he always feels like a machine, since the first time John shot a cabbie for him, is such a dangerous idea to keep. John always emphasized that he is not gay when he was alive, and even now that he is pretty much not dead, it is better safe than sorry to think that John doesn’t love him.

He harasses Mycroft’s men to open the damn door either with shooting the lock or hit it with the back of rifles. Anything just to unlock the door to let Sherlock save John because what’s the point coming back alive again without John in his life. That sounds ridiculous. That sounds  _ lonely.  _ The first time he was resuscitated in the dingy room of Battersea Power Plant, confusion and dizziness were the first things registered to his brain.  _ How is that possible?.  _ Then with Mycroft’s confession that he didn’t know where John goes for months, he just lost him in surveillance then out of sudden a call from Serbia woke him up to secure Sherlock in that abandoned building. It was fantastically maddening.

There is no possibility he could get from his realm of logical reasoning for his revival that he only followed the only lead they had, coming to Serbia with enough team to help. Although Mycroft detests or restraint to the point of begging (the thing that Sherlock thought would never come from Mycroft), he will always come to keep John safe no matter what it takes. Then seeing John just now might make him realize that the only explanation from his awakening that if John made something out of the magic or dark knowledge which in this case is a demon.

With everything occurs to his life recently, he doesn’t wonder that he start praying madly to any deity above, an act that comes unnaturally from him only happening in the critical moments in his life,  _ God, please let him live. _

* * *

 

The heating breeze across his face is the initial thing he feels when the blur sighting comes the next. It’s as if the black and white screen bursting in technicolor where he notices that he is mounting a dark horse in the middle of the desert with Montu next to him, mirroring his situation. His black hair is still braiding to his back with bulky posture that doesn’t go unnoticed even with golden armor intact. His gaze wandering slowly from the sky to the desert across him then land his eyes on him. He grope his body to realize that he is still wearing the same loose pants but without the demonic features. His tan skin with normal fingers yet in anomaly condition.

“Where are we?” John asks Montu tersely.

“This place is still beautiful like the time I was alive. You know John, when you live in the desert, yellow sand and blue sky are the only things you see so you tend to seek something exciting in keeping yourself sane” Montu explains in the slow way as if talking with kids which doesn't answer John's exact question after all. John doesn’t respond to it, knowing that Montu will continue it in seconds because you are inclined to know people who stuck in your head like the back of your hand.

“It was not surprising that at the end a woman who made my life in the desert better than before, might settle it as the best. Her name is Iunit and she glowed like a Sun”. Montu exhales deeply as he rubs the neck of dark horse in form of soothing the animal. John tries imitating the act. He never mounts a horse more so riding it, it makes sense to not burst animal into frenzy state then. 

“What happened?”

“I was in the middle of long year of war when I heard Iunit was proposed by the Pharaoh at that time, Mentuhotep, the king that I was served. Rumor had it that she couldn’t refuse for the threat of beheading but i knew that she loved me. I was running back to the kingdom, with my body armor still intact. You see, I was a living God of war, I made that name, people worshiped more me than to the King. It was considered to be a treason if you challenge a Pharaoh although it was for the woman I love. My comrades and I were lost in that challenge then most of us were die and the rest including me were mummified alive. They said I was losing it for thirst of power but I was just a man”. Montu ends that story by looking expectantly to John.

“I am sorry to hear that. I wish people knew it better” John offers sympathy as the lump forms in his throat. That’s so sad when people twist your story while you only do it for the thing that people expect you to not have it in yourself. Just like Sherlock. Media twisted his geniosity as fake genius adding with the blunder from Moriarty that disguised as Richard Brooks. Unconsciously he grits his teeth and folds the reign tight on his hands. 

Montu scoffs for the compassion given by John, “You love him, don’t you? I had never been awakened for a thing such love, usually it is power stuff, give me this or kill that person, it is amusing when I saw your summoning”. Montu gives John a lopsided smile that throws the doctor off of his guard. He gapes and blinks his eyes. “Err..”

“The souls indeed i took for resuscitating that man, but the remnants of hatred and sins which make the blade contains of demonic power that already transferred to you will live inside you for you are the new host of it. It can’t be reversed but you can manage it to not let it rots your intention. John Watson, it’s a pleasure once again to awake but now you ought to go back.”

Before John can utter a single response, Montu touches his forehead with both of his middle finger and point finger then it pushes John into a plunge of darkness. Perhaps, he shouts and flaps his hands to get a hold but it is completely a futile effort for he is going deeper and deeper until the complete abyss swallows him up.

* * *

 

He remembers walking into Barts with Stamford by his side. Stamford talked about his family and his teaching in Barts with trivia jokes that John appreciated that time. He still had the limp that weight him down like a chuck grip tailored by Hell with misery on top. He was so depressed and purposeless. Little did he know that one step further into one of Stamford’s lab would change his whole life.

_ John. John this is Sherlock. Stop there. _

He remembers wandering his eyes on the entire lab room, noticing a pale and tall guy at the corner with beakers around him, curly dark hair and lean fingers. ‘Bit different from my day’ he said to Stamford then the dark tall guy asked Mike to lend him phone. It was an impulse that John didn’t know where did it come, nonetheless, he offered his phone to the stranger in the room ‘Here. Use mine’.

_ John wake up! Keep your men civil Mycroft, for God’s sake. John -- _

He remembers the train of deduction from the stranger upon his being like bullets shot through the NASA nuclear jet, brain faster and brighter than he ever witnessed in his entire life,  _ discharged army doctor from Afghanistan, limp, therapist _ . The stranger was so attractive in close proximity that John couldn’t decide whether to flutter or to run away.

_ John Watson wake up!  _

Before the stranger could say his name and the address of the flat they were going to see the next day, John is pulled into consciousness with blade falls to the floor, making a racket noise in echoing room. His body aches beyond words, there is so much smell of blood in the air, that he notices also smearing on his palms and hands. 

“John..”

He looks up and provided by Sherlock’s concerning look and the team who hold him back. It feels like everything that he ever lost coming back to him in a single struck of lightning, electrifying all of his cells that capable to feel into a jolt of explosion, his grief, his agony is bleeding out of his pores that he can’t help but whimpering one name that has always been the only salvation he had and now he can have it back. “Sherlock..”

Sherlock strides in two, three, four steps and envelopes John’s black and blue beaten body with his arms. He cradles John’s nape and rubs his back gently. John never been treated so soft like this that makes him like a precious person in the world. He sobs while clutching Sherlock’s big coat’s lapels. ‘This is not the Belstaff coat’ he thinks warily, yet he inhales Sherlock’s smell just because he can. That musk of sandalwood, cut grass, gunpowder,  _ alive.  _ He might utter inaudible sob for Sherlock keeps shushing him and tightening his embrace. This is the most intimacy act that they ever have and John doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed. 

He miss Sherlock, it feels like there is iron running hot in his veins that glued to the magnetic field personified in Sherlock. He wants to climb inside Sherlock’s rib cage and lives there forever with him either high or fall they will go with it together. ‘Wait, does even Sherlock want to be hugged like this. Although he the first initiated the hug maybe not this tight. Or maybe..”

“Stop it John, I am afraid if you thinking too much it will hurt your little brain”

“Shut up Sherlock”

“Sorry can’t hear you from up here”

He always has to have a last word, hasn’t he? He is so insufferable yet John can’t wait to be bugged by that particular insufferable madman. He retracts a little from the embrace to look at the undead detective.  


“Oh so you come back from the dead with additional height, long legs? Fuck you Sherlock, what the hell did you think falling from the roof like that you bloody mad git, once I have all my mental capacities we gotta need to have a talk about waiting a backup and counting on your friends, moron.”

John thinks that Sherlock will retort back with deluxe kind of insult yet the consulting detective’s face just softens with crinkle around his clear grey eyes and mouth curls up. “I don’t have friends, John, I’ve just got one”. Sherlock cups John’s face in his gloved hands and leans down to have the same eye level with John. “I only have you”. Sherlock whispers to John as if those words are the secret only made for them to know and as well as making it the truest meaningful feeling that John shudders in goose bumps and closes his eyes. 

He can feel Sherlock’s lips kiss his corner of mouth tenderly as if he tries to infuse so much love into such a small act. “Thank you for bringing me back from the dead, John” Sherlock says to John’s cheek then moves his face to rest his forehead on John’s. John opens his eyes and he believes that with the way he looks up Sherlock like this, the face he makes is full of adoration and love he can feel it to his marrow bones. He bumps his nose lightly to Sherlock’s, “Until the death do us apart, Sherlock, and even then”. He says it with full of sincerity and affection that makes Sherlock sighs in contentment. 

Then the reunion is broken by Mycroft clearing his throat. Sherlock rolls his eyes hard that John replies with his own snort. “If you might, gentlemen, we still have a flight to catch and let the team clean up this mess”. Mycroft throws a detest glance to the downstair massacre. “Mycroft, come on, say it”. For a moment, John only can see the Holmes brother exchanging glances that might full of MI6 secret encryption. 

“Perhaps it would be very rude of me if I do not express my fully gratitude to you Dr. Watson for saving Sherlock from his own doom and my apology for letting you do all of these alone. Your loss will be as painful as I ever had with my brother too.”

Mycroft says that while watching the point of his umbrella on the floor. Strangely, it feels like the first time he met Mycroft, pompous government man, but undoubtedly devoted big brother. “Very welcome, Mycroft”. He surprises Mycroft by that as the man’s eyebrows shot up high while inquiring John’s face. After he satisfied with whatever he searches on John’s face, Mycroft just say “well go on then” and go through the exit door.

John guesses he will never get used to with the tender gesture Sherlock does to him as the man shrugs off his coat and let it blanketing John’s bare top. He fits it to John’s body with so much gentle stare that weakens John’s knees. And yet,

“Once we are at home John, may I have examination over your skin or eyes, i saw what happened at the downstairs, it was perplexing beyond science.”

Not like John expecting him to change, but that talk is really shocking. John just pulls the coat tighter around him while pretending to give sideways glance to Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock.”

They start walking to the exit door when Sherlock pesters him more about it.

“But John, imagine what a breakthrough if we can understand supernatural occurrences through science.”

“Still no, Sherlock.”

“John you are doctor, you can’t be possibly..”

John kisses him on the mouth chastely and hold his left gloved hand in his naked one.

“Shut up Sherlock”

“Well, i guess that act of shutting me up need to undergo more experimentation for data then.”

And John smiles in that particular curl of lips that dedicating only for Sherlock.

 

 

\- FIN -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help to always infuse dark jokes here. Sequel might comes might not. However, enjoy your days my dear friends >3<


End file.
